Facets

Part One -

A common, small town, packed with bumbling commoners, some odd, others plain, was subject to an infamous period of deep unease. During this time a leaden strangeness weighed down the town, turning the residents untrusting and timid. Frightened became the default condition. Schools filled with gossip and juvenile naiveté about the topic; kids made up phrases like “the aqua-psycho” or “the river maniac”, and the adults kept those they knew not so well a lot further away; the town was, speaking in older terms, under a spell. Darkness wasn’t imminent, it was here.

The sun beamed almost listlessly on an autumn morning in Norton Town, when the body of a young woman was found floating down the river. Naturally the senile morning folk who frequent the town at the crack of dawn were the first to discern the corpse. Nothing as gruesome as this had happened before in this chirpy little society; as one can imagine, severe upset along with bewilderment from the authorities was elicited, but that swelling of panic seemed to fairly rapidly disappear, even considering the mystery behind the girl’s death. It was almost as if the town had tried to brush this under the carpet, to continue maintaining the primness of their perspective. Such was a peachy idea, until a second body emerged, floating again, utterly lifeless, a dead butterfly, and this time with quiet visible lacerations. The authorities were on high alert.

The river, in a large way, defined Norton as a town, weaving throughout and under a handful of various bridges, some recently built, others quite antiquated. However one bridge, one understated, almost forgotten-about bridge, was where a sinister figure with sinister intent often sat to brood over his sick and vile and gigantic fantasies. Inside his head were the self-made snapshots of the raping, the torturing, the tormenting, and of course the drowning of young women.

Part Two.

Eight-Thirty, Wednesday evening. No one in Norton knows the motive or the monster behind the killings. Everyone waits in their heated homes on their hot couches, hoping for a wisp of safety, hoping a portly chief officer on the TV screen announces they’ve captured the psycho. Nope. Nothing of the kind. The darkness is subtle but so very apparent.

Emily Marshall is a rather cordial girl, not gifted in intellect - or even beauty necessarily - but she walks with a notable distinction, a kind of defected swagger that emits an aura of warmth and friendliness. On this Wednesday, Wednesday the 28th, Emily will walk home from her friend’s house through the dewy, foggy meadows so agonisingly unaware of her future soon to come. She knows nothing of the pain destined for her - and now she begins her walk. Out of the plush house on the plush part of town, an estate for the middle-class.

“Bye-Bye, Lisa.”

“See ya, Em.”

Apple makes Phones, Laptops, Watches, gadgets, but no shining device to prevent this happening. “Why her?” One might ask, “why the innocent girl?”

“Why not,” one might reply, one kind.

Part Three - That Kind

My time is uncertain. My job is complete. The crux is clear. I killed Emily Marshall; I took away her breath in the worst of ways. I killed the two other girls too, Sarah Harsh and Selena Blake. I beat them, bruised them, broke their bones and savoured their screams — of what could be heard whilst I gagged them. Did you know women can’t breathe under water? Yes I took their breath away, and they begged for it back. Oh, yes, I’m a sick man, the worst. I’ve thrown the woman with the fish, and that’s no idiom. Have you ever seen that minuscule flicker in somebodies eyes right before they die? It’s mesmerising. I should like to see it one more time.